


Skinhorse

by Hierodule



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, Character Study, Drunkenness, Hockey Fights, M/M, NHL Entry Draft, Not Beta Read, Self-Doubt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but mostly the last season, mayhaps i projected a few of my own issues onto poor matty here, moments over a few years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hierodule/pseuds/Hierodule
Summary: Ritter puts an arm around Matty’s shoulders, pulling him closer to make room. Big, he thinks stupidly, feeling Ritters body pressed to his side. It’s nice. He is comfortable. He feels safe, like there is a wall between Matthew and the world. Hammer chirps Hanny on something and they are all laughing, and he lets his head roll back on to Ritter’s shoulder. Ritter smells good, smells like hockey, like heat, and sweat, and some vaguely  musky tropical body wash





	Skinhorse

**Author's Note:**

> Extremely fictional portrayal of irl people based on my own mind gremlins and not fit for outside of fandom consumption.
> 
> CW for drinking , negative self talk, minor use of misogynistic language, implications of bad parenting
> 
> This will probably be a two parter, with a slightly hornier part two out soon. I haven't written in so long, I am kind of relearning how, so hopeful someone get a kick out of my first attempt at Hockey RPF. Not Beta Read, but if a brave soul wants to take on that task i would welcome it. And Big Dave Dave did ref kids and teen games while moonlighting as a goalie as a high schooler!

1

  
His own draft day was a blur. The hot lights, the press of bodies, his parents on either side of him like a bracket, two parentheses reducing him to an aside: _That's Keith Tkachuks son_. Their body’s curved towards him to whisper in his ear. He was wearing a suit that feels more like a costume. They are all crowded into stands waiting for the young men to cross the stage like some parody of a graduation ceremony, but instead of gowns and diplomas, some old man presses a jersey into your hands that will change your life forever. But no high school ceremony had this much press, the glassy lens of a hundred cameras wink at him in the dark below the stage.

No one looks nervous, they are overgrown children, but they have been interviewed and poked and prodded and prepped for this day for months, for their whole lives. Chin up, make good eye contact, project casual magnificence like an armor. Act like you have been here before.

Auston looks downright bored, but Matthew has played with him enough to know that that just Austons resting bitch face. He would pair well with Marns, he could feel it. One Canadian team down, there are so many in the the top ten, chances are good he will end up on one of them. Liane to Winnipeg. Dubois to Columbus. When Puljujarvi gets selected by the Oilers, Matthew had let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. His father huffs an impatient sigh, as Olli, his fellow Knight goes fifth.

Sixth overall. His dad won’t be happy, but that is a shitty string of texts, an argument in a locked car in a St Louis parking garage, an offhand remark at christmas for the future. His sister grinned so wide as she hugged him. Brady, the little shit took an unflattering low angle selfie of them, before also pulling him into an embrace.  
  
When he rewatches the clip now, he feels he can hardly recognize himself, with his church boy haircut and baby face. The camera lingers on him, the sportsnet analysts talking about how he is just what Calgary Flames are looking for. As his younger self fidgets in is seat, Sportsnet flashes a graphic, a news ticker reading “Signed David Rittich to a 1-year/ 925k two way contract June 13” beside the Flames Logo, like a an omen, cause sometime destiny comes at you fast, I guess.

 

2

Rittich is called up from Stockton to play the last game of the season. He is only an inch taller than Matthew, but there is some weird innate bigness to him, the set of his shoulders, the width of his crooked grin.

And a hockey ass that won’t quit, _his eyes are up there Tkachuk_ , he thinks, suddenly finding the task of lacing up his skates very interesting.

So yeah, Matthew notices him. But its later, as practice as ending when Matthew tells a joke and Johnny and Monny just look blankly back at him, like twin loading bars wheeling away that have not quite gotten there yet, but behind them Ritter laughs, and Mathew fucking _notices him._

 

3

The next year is hard. Ritter is good, until he isn’t. Until Smitty gets hurt, and Ritter is the starter. The Flames are good, until they aren’t.

 

4

His own was a blur, but he remembers Brady’s draft day like he is still waiting for it to happen. Their dad still isn’t happy, thinks Brady’ should have gone 3rd, but Montreal wanted a center, wanted the weird looking smiley Finnish kid, so Brady is off to Ottawa for better or worse.

Matthew waits on the stairs, he wants to be the last one Brady hugs before he goes down on the stage.

  
The media will try to pry some rivalry storyline out of this, but mostly what Matthew feels is a raw sort of relief. 4th is higher than 6th, there it is. The confirmation that their father is right, _was always right_. All Matthew’s years of throwing his weight around, talking shit, pushing his brother to the asphalt in front of their house, it meant nothing. Brady was always better, shone brighter, loved easier and it’s fine. _It is fine_ because Matthew loves his little brother, he always has, even when he was jealous, because it was easier than loving himself.

It’s fine because now Keith’s favourite son is in the NHL, and Matthew is free to be a fuck up in relative peace.

5

They celebrate coming home from China by all going out to a bar, which is stunningly bad decision making on their part because half of them are tremendously jet-lagged, and the regular season has started, it counts now. But for some reason Gio says yes, and so they all pile into the Broken City Bar at 10pm already half cocked, and ready for apple bourbon wings and beer. It’s a dive, but in the best way, loud, with greasy food, and dark little booths to cram into in the back where not many people will bother them.

Lindy and Monny have trapped Johnny with a stunning brunette in the corner, and are laughing into their beers as he flounders trying to make conversation with her. Hanny looks half ready to fall over already. Neal is debating the best shots with a bartender. They have just straight up lost Gilly somewhere.  
  
Matthew crawls over Gio’s lap, trying not to spill the full bottle of beer in his right hand, and squeezes himself between the captain and Ritter. He is drunk enough that he is too tired to actively socialize anymore, his body feels warm and loose, his brain drowning in the smells and the music and the dim warm light. He is gonna regret this in about 7 hours when his body gives up on metabolizing all of this, but that and all his other worries seem miles away now.

Monny, who must have gotten bored of teasing Johnny, squeezes into the other side of the booth and Ritter puts an arm around Matty’s shoulders, pulling him closer to make room. _Big_ , he thinks stupidly, feeling Ritters body pressed to his side. It’s nice. He is comfortable. He feels safe, like there is a wall between Matthew and the world. Hammer chirps Hanny on something and they are all laughing, and he lets his head roll back on to Ritter’s shoulder. Ritter smells good, smells like hockey, like heat, and sweat, and some vaguely musky tropical body wash.

 A large hand trails up his side, and snakes itself into hair, fingers tangling themself in his curls, nails scraping down his scalp gently.  It feels way too good. If Matthew was a cat he’d be purring. Nerve endings working overtime. A terrifying lucid sober thought bubbles it’s way to the surface that if Ritter _pulls_ his hair there is a decent chance he is going to pop a boner, but then Neal shows up with his round of shots, and more people to try to fit into the booth, he is jostled and suddenly he is half in Ritter’s lap, and that’s _nice_. His last clear thought before the world goes liquid and hazy is that _this could be trouble._

  
  
6

Matthew skates over to hug Ritter after a big win, and Ritter lifts him off his clean feet and that is nice too. _  
_

 

7

  
The Caps have lost like,  seven straight or something,  and they have no Ovi, and the Flames are hot right now, so this _should_ be an easy win but something is wrong, something is not flowing. Someone hits Hammer in the second, so Matthew is already pissed. They try to get the puck to Johnny as time is running down but it goes wide and the buzzer sounds. And then someone in a red Capitals jersey hits Johnny like a freight train and Matthew loses it. Why is always fucking Johnny, don’t these fucking cowards have something better to do than throw one of the leagues smallest players around?  
  
Grabs the first big Capital he can find and it’s Orpik: great, rad, awesome. Orpik’s strong but also about a thousand years old. The lights are hot, blood is roaring in his ears so loud that he can hardly hear his own voice yelling a streak of profanity. Orpik grabs the back of his jersey pulling him out of the scrum, and Matthew wheels around, sucks his mouthguard into his mouth, gloves fall to the ground. He lands a few, dodges a few before Orpik’s fist catches him in cheek with a nauseating cracking sound, lights snap in front of Matthew’s vision, and his visor smacks him on the nose because of course, he had forgotten to take off the helmet, and here comes another fist, right in the ear.  Right in the mouth.  
  
The refs drag him away, but then Tom Fucking Wilson bodyslams a player in a Flame jersey into the ice by the net and, oh, Matthew is about to destroy so much in retribution, that Wilson himself would be appalled. Except that the ref _won’t_ let go, and now _Holtby is in his face_. And it’s fine. It _is_ fine. He'll fight them all, it's what he has always done when skill and work ethic were not enough. Be stronger, don’t be a bitch, don’t be a sucker. They lost the game but he can win at this.  
  
But the ref doesn’t let him go. They lose. He is a loser. His teammates pat him on the back. Bill says something, but Matthew is too tired to listen. The pain, no longer tinged red with adrenaline, no longer making him feel alive, is just pain now. There is blood in his mouth, and ice on his fists and he just wants to be home in Calgary, wants to be in bed.  
  
He sits with Ritter on the plane, he is too burnt out to deal with Lindy or Hammers energy, Johnny’s disappointed fidgeting. Ritter doesn’t judge him for taking the sim card out of his phone and slipping it in to his pocket even though calls probably won’t go through on an airplane anyway. It makes him feel better. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not tonight. He can shame _himself_ for a job badly done, thank you very much.

“So much bullshit,” Ritter hums beside him, “What was that at the end huh. Backstrom all in big huff so he runs over Johnny and officials are okay with it? I ref better than that.”

Matthew gives him a tired grin, “When was the last time you even reffed, you're rusty bud.”

“I’m a great ref. Throw Matty in the box, two minutes for fighting, two minutes for running mouth.”

“Missed your calling, huh?”

Ritter chuckles, “Yah, could have nice quiet life bossing hockey players around back home, no neurotic rich wonderkind teammates, no commercials where Matty makes me eat wasabi.“

“You love it, you’d be _so_ bored without us”

Ritter shrugs but he is smiling. Matthew smiles back as the plane makes it’s ascent into a grey Virgina sky

  
  
  
  



End file.
